When Smith Met Reese
by 2FirstNames
Summary: Their trip to New York was meant to be fun. A diversion. The Doctor and Donna didn't count on John Reese-and all he brought with him. The Doctor is no stranger to secrets, and the Man in the Suit might be keeping a few of his own. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

_November 2013_

A payphone rang, and a man in a suit moved to answer it.

It was a rainy New York Wednesday, and he bobbed through a sea of umbrellas. As usual, he had forgotten his; and as usual, the cold rain was more refreshing than irritating. His coat kept off the worst of it, and he could always dry off later.

The phone rang again. One or two passersby stared, but made no move to answer. John Reese smiled a bit. New Yorkers.

He answered the phone as it completed its third ring. Three voices responded.

First, a man's voice: "World."

Then a woman's: "Wide."

And then another woman's: "Web."

John drew a pen and notebook from an interior pocket of his coat. Raindrops splattered the paper, and he wished for the first time that day he had brought an umbrella. He propped the phone against his shoulder and did his best to shield the paper from the rain.

The Machine gave the web address in its usual garbled, disembodied way. John scribbled the address, and then back the notebook went into his pocket. Before he returned the phone to its hook, the Machine spoke again.

Man's voice: "Move."

Child's: "Quickly."

Woman's: "Call."

Man's: "Finch."

John did as he was told.

* * *

"Well, Mr. Reese, had I not created the Machine, I might think it was malfunctioning. It seems the address it gave you is for a site that attracts conspiracy theorists. This page in particular…" His words slowed a bit, as they always did when he was distracted by a number. "The page you sent me to is devoted to a man called The Doctor."

"Doctor who?" The rain had tapered into a drizzle, and John quickened his pace. Walking in a drizzle could be as enjoyable as walking in the rain, but his apartment was still a block away. The Machine wanted them to move quickly, and John wanted to be ready.

"That's what these forum members seem devoted to finding out. But they don't seem to be having much luck. The most they have been able to muster up is a few photographs—"

"All of which make him resemble Bigfoot, I'm sure."

"—and a handful of anecdotes from secondhand sources—friends of friends who thought they saw him in downtown London, third cousins who spoke with him, that sort of thing."

"So which one of them do you think is our number?"

John heard a few muted clicks at the other end of the line. "I'm not sure. Perhaps none of them."

"What do you mean?"

"When we get a number, the Machine sends a number. This is the first time it has sent us a website, isn't it?"

"That doesn't mean none of those people are in danger, Finch." He pushed through the front door of his apartment building, and was greeted by a welcome blast of warm air. His feet left puddles on the pristine tile floor.

"I still don't think you're getting the point, Mr. Reese."

"Which is…?" He raised his hand in greeting to the front desk clerk. She rolled her eyes and raised an umbrella, pointing to it in an exaggerated way and mouthing, _Buy one! _

"That our number isn't a number. I think it's a name."

John sighed as he stepped into the stairwell. No sense in soaking the elevator's carpet. "You're not telling me this Doctor character is our number?"

"I can't think of any other logical explanation."

"So we're going after a guy who is so far off the grid, he doesn't even have a real name."

"Precisely."

"I sure hope you're wrong, Finch."

"This wouldn't be the first time."

"If you're right, this is going to be a hell of a lot more trouble than it's worth."

* * *

It was only ten in the morning, and Detective Jocelyn Carter already had a headache.

It wasn't the incessant ringing of telephones that caused it. Anyone who worked for the NYPD longer than twenty minutes had already filed it away as background music. Nor was it the detective standing in before her desk with a stack of manila folders tucked under her arm, or the six-inch pile of paperwork that needed completing.

"Listen, Morgan. You know I'm more than willing to ignore all of my work to help you with a couple of cases that aren't even my department. But if you expect a _homicide _detective to help you with a missing persons case, you had better have a damn good reason for wanting it."

"Look, I wouldn't ask you if I didn't think I was out of options."

"Ask your partner."

"He's just as stumped as I am." Detective Charlotte Morgan was no rookie. Her first five years in the Department had drawn deep lines around her eyes and mouth. The next five had set her hair on the path to an early grey, which she never bothered to hide. Carter didn't blame her. Had she spent seven years finding people who were more often than not bound for the city morgue, she might have seen a few silver hairs as a badge of honor. Not that homicide was any better.

Carter sighed and reached for the files tucked under Morgan's arm. "All right. I'll take a look."

"You will?"

"That's what I just said. Get me some coffee."

Morgan handed over the stack and hurried off for the coffee, and Carter opened the first file. Jessica Bailey, age twenty-four, last seen near Central Park, was reported missing two nights ago. An examination of the area where she was seen revealed no sign of struggle. The sole eyewitness, a homeless man named Franklin Delano Roosevelt (or so he claimed) reported nothing. No vans, no strangers in the area, nothing.

By the time Morgan returned, Styrofoam cup in hand, Carter had skimmed the first three files. "Well? What do you think?"

"I think this guy is definitely a professional. No eyewitnesses, 'cept for the homeless guy, and he's certifiable."

"You think it's all one guy, too?"

"Gotta be, least with the first couple. Same MO, same crime scene—"

"Or lack of it."

"Or lack of it," Carter agreed. She let the file fall to her desk with a quiet _slap. _"Other than that, I can't tell you a thing. Guy's too slick."

"I was afraid of that." Morgan nodded to the remaining files. "How long'll you be with those?"

"Come back in ten minutes."

Carter skimmed the remaining files, but the only conclusion she drew was that the same guy was involved. Or girl. Or ghost, for all they knew. As Morgan and her partner had already arrived at that conclusion, Carter's input would be redundant at best.

"I won't be much help on this one," she muttered, taking another sip of the station's over-boiled coffee. She nudged the files into a neat stack. Men, women and children, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, all gone—and their UNSUB hadn't the decency to leave a footprint or a tire track. Carter was already preparing for the inevitable day, weeks or maybe months down the road, when those same files would return to her desk. The only difference would be a few gruesome photographs of dead bodies and an autopsy report for each, making them her responsibility.

Carter sighed and eyed the stack of paperwork that still needed completing. She took a page from the top of the stack and filled out the first few blanks on autopilot. Her mind was still on those missing persons files.

* * *

The moment John was showered, dried, and clothed, he plugged in his Bluetooth and called Finch. Music played in the background of the call, and it took him a moment to pick out a few instruments—electric guitars, drums, and a distinctly operatic wail.

"Never would have pegged you for a Swedish metal fan, Finch."

"Honestly, Mr. Reese, I would have thought you of all people would know the difference between Swedish metal and Finnish operatic rock."

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"Don't expect me to tell you."

John smiled. "Why you said it, or why you were listening to Finnish rock?"

The music ceased. "'Phantom of the Opera' is a marvelous song in all its iterations. My grandmother was rather fond of it."

"Was she now?"

"A man does not lie about his own grandmother, Mr. Reese."

"Does this grandmother have a name?"

"She did, yes. Though I must say, this was not your best attempt at getting me to divulge personal information. Perhaps you should try harder next time."

John opened his blinds and smiled at the New York skyline, still blanketed in pewter-colored clouds. "Anything new on this Doctor?"

"Numerous theories, but precious few facts. Evidently there was a group several years ago who made strides toward determining his identity, but for one reason or another the group is now defunct."

"Did this group have a name?"

"Yes. They were called LINDA."

John chuckled. "And we wonder why they disbanded."

"A great mystery, I'm sure." There was a brief clatter of computer keys at the other end of the line. "Since you called, the Machine has emailed me several more links to various websites. I've been going through them one by one."

"All of them devoted to conspiracy theories, I'm sure."

"Don't rule out conspiracy theories entirely, Mr. Reese. How do you think I found you?"

Now this was new. "There were conspiracy theories about me back then?"

"More than you would imagine."

"Or would care to." With some effort, he resisted plunging headfirst into memories of his time on the streets. "What do the conspiracy theorists say?"

"Standard urban legend fare, most of it. He appears to weave in and out of history at random—we have one rumored sighting in Victorian London, another in Shakespearian London, a few in Scotland. Most of these reported Doctor sightings appear to be modern, but they're always very brief and inconclusive."

"According to you or the theorists?"

"Me. I read the theories and draw my own conclusions."

"Of course." John was grateful the Machine had sent those links to Finch. He would not have lasted more than a few minutes slogging through page after page of theories piled on top of theories, each more ridiculous than the last. "How many of those theorists claim he's actually the Pope?"

"Just one. And that theorist doesn't seem to be very popular….from his post onward the thread devolves into name-calling and finger-pointing….oh, that's not a very nice thing to say….but _that_ is rather clever…."

"Finch."

He cleared his throat and John heard a few more clicks. "From what I can gather, the Doctor seems to stay in or near the London area."

Visions of a long plane ride and hours in an airport danced through John's head. "So I'm going to London."

"You…._might_….be….but I don't believe that will be necessary. There have been a handful of New York sightings—infrequent, yes, but confirmed by several sources."

"Which sources?" If he was going to London, he wanted to get the preparations underway so he could get the trip over with.

"DoctrWuzHeer1930 and INosSumthingsUP19879 offer the most information." He must have heard John's sigh, because he plunged ahead. "As I said before, those sightings are rather infrequent, but they do exist."

"All right. I'll let you get back to your reading. Call me if I need to book a flight." That Finch would insist on first class was small comfort. He resigned himself to hours of sore joints and stiff muscles.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese. He's here."

John straightened. "Where?"

"The Machine just sent me a surveillance video from an organic bakery in Lower Manhattan."

"Are you sure it's him?"

"He matches the pictures, so far as I can tell. He has a different woman with him…but everything else matches the pictures online."

"How old is the video?"

"The stills were taken fifteen minutes ago. The video….seems to be a live feed."

John had already grabbed a dry coat from the closet. "I'm on my way."


	2. Chapter 2

"I still can't believe it! We're in New York—_in the future!_"

"Well, by five years, from your perspective."

"It's still the future, Spaceman!" Donna Noble tilted her head to the skyscrapers and spun in a circle, arms out as though to embrace the whole of New York and everyone in it. "It's brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

The Doctor glanced at his watch. Ten past three in the afternoon on the dot. He made a mental note of the time and date. His reasons for traveling with humans outnumbered the stars in several galaxies, but if anyone in the relative future ever asked for one reason and one reason only, he would take them back to this moment, smile, and point to Donna.

She finished her twirling with a small jump and a giggle, and then turned serious. "Where are we, exactly?"

Now it was his turn to spin in a circle, albeit to get his bearings. "Manhattan, looks like. Empire State Building's over there."

"Ooh! Let's go see it!"

"Well—" He stared at the massive structure for a long moment, remembering Sec and the Daleks and what had happened after the storm, calculating whether he could approach it. The very thought turned his stomach. "It's really nothing worth seeing."

"But it's the _Empire State Building_! Haven't you ever wanted to go to the very top and look down at all the little people rushing about?"

"Already have. It's all rubbish, what they say about it. Just a bunch of wind and rain up there."

"It's not raining anymore."

"Could start any moment. You know how New York is."

Donna opened her mouth to protest, but then she looked up at the clouds that still cast the city into shadow. The Doctor could almost see the wheels in her head turning, coming to the conclusion that New York's weather wasn't much different from Britain's.

"Oh, all right," she said at last, heaving a sigh. "But we're going to do at least one dumb tourist thing while we're here, mark my words."

He smiled. "I'd be insulted if we didn't."

"_Insulted_. That's a new one, coming from you." He offered his arm, and she took it. "Just so you know, whatever we do is going to be _really _dumb. It'll be so dumb all the other tourists will look at us and say, 'Oi, what're those two idiots doing? They look dumb enough to get stranded in the Middle Ages!'"

"Oi! It's not my fault we _almost_ got stranded!"

"They were going to _burn _me as a _witch_!"

"First of all, I've seen how witch burnings go, and that wasn't even close. They just didn't like you, is all."

She gave an incredulous laugh. "Oh, so if you're in the Middle Ages, a harlot is what you call someone you don't like, is that it?"

"Well—yeah."

A bakery's colorful sign appeared, bright as spring against the dismal sky. Donna released his arm and ran forward a few paces, then stopped, turned, and announced: "I'm going to buy us pastries—_from the future_!"

"Oh, good. Future pastries. My favorite kind."

"Like you would know!" She ran inside, leaving the Doctor out on the sidewalk.

She was right, he thought, as she often was. Terms like _present _and _future _lost their meaning when you could stop by a New York food truck for lunch and make it to a New New York diner well before the dinner rush. But the terms hadn't lost their meaning for Donna, and that was all that mattered. Her childlike joy at seeing near-future New York made the ever-present sight of the Empire State Building worth it.

Well—almost.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

The voice nearly made him jump. He hadn't heard the man approach, and looking at him, he couldn't imagine how. The stranger was tall, as strangers went, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His black jacket was of fine, expensive-looking leather, and he wore a dark suit beneath it.

He looked familiar.

"Tallest thing in the city." His voice was only a few steps above a whisper. Was he naturally soft-spoken, or did he keep his voice down because it forced others to listen carefully? "You can't see it everywhere, no matter what the movies say, but it's still highly visible. I can see it right out my window."

"Yeah? Where do you live?"

"Oh, not far. Near enough, I suppose. You don't live here, I take it?"

"Nah. I just travel a lot."

"Where to?"

"Just about everywhere. I'm not picky."

The stranger smiled. He was still staring at the Building several miles off. "I used to do that."

"Miss it?"

"I'm rather fond of New York, to be honest."

It wasn't a truth and it wasn't a lie. It wasn't an answer at all. There was something familiar about that sort of evasion, but the Doctor couldn't have said how. "Great city. So great—"

"They named it twice," the stranger finished with him. He chuckled. "You've been here before. Or at least read the brochures."

"Yeah, been here a couple times." Where had he seen this man? London? Torchwood?In passing on one of his few trips Stateside?

"I'm John," the stranger said, offering his hand along with a friendly smile. It seemed genuine.

Smiles could be misleading.

The Doctor shook it. "So am I. John Smith, if that makes it easier."

John smiled again. "What're the odds, meeting another man named John in one of the biggest cities in the world?"

"Astronomical, I'm sure." The Doctor so wanted to like John's sarcasm, but how could he when John might not even be his real name? "You have a surname?"

"Reese."

"John Reese." He had heard that name before, but it wasn't exactly uncommon. Plug the name Reese into any database in any human-based outpost in the universe, and chances were good there would be at least one named John.

"I was just going to get a bite to eat," John Reese said, tilting his head toward the bakery. "It's warmer in there."

"Ah, I've got a friend in there already."

He didn't ask about the friend, but simply nodded. "Well, then. I'll see you around, perhaps."

"Yeah. Likewise."

The Doctor watched John Reese disappear into the bakery. Donna exited a moment later, brown paper bag in hand.

"I've got pastries! And oi, pastries from the future look—" Seeing his face, hers fell. "What's wrong, Spaceman? You look like you saw a ghost."

"That man—the one who just went into that bakery."

"Yeah? What about him?"

"He looked _obscenely _familiar."

"Obscenely, eh?" Donna fished two éclairs from the bag and bit into one, handing the other to the Doctor. "He didn't look nude to me."

The Doctor didn't bother to explain. Donna more likely than not understood what he meant. "I _know _I've seen him before somewhere."

"Well, what're we standing on this sidewalk for?" She grinned, tilting her head toward John's retreating form. "Let's follow him!"

Now it was his turn to grin. Good old Donna. "Well, then. Allons-y!"

* * *

"He can't be a perpetrator, Finch. Gotta be a victim."

"I'll say. You would not have given him your real name otherwise."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." That was something of a lie. It had seemed like the _only _idea at the time. There was something about this Doctor person—or John Smith, as he seemed to prefer—that had made the thought of giving him a false name repugnant. Never mind that John Reese wasn't quite his real name. It was the closest thing to a real name he had, and sharing it with the Doctor had felt like the right thing to do.

"Did you manage to at least plant a bug or clone his phone?"

"No. I tried to get a phone from that woman who was with him, but she left the bakery before I could speak to her."

"Yes, and she kept her face well away from any cameras, so I still can't give you her name. Where is she now?"

John ducked into the first store he saw, which happened to sell fine suits, and peered out the window. As expected, the Doctor's female friend passed by a moment later, pausing to throw a glance through the window. "Following me. Just as I hoped."

"Oh?" Finch's surprise seemed genuine. "Just her, or is the Doctor with her?"

John paused to browse a display of suit jackets. To most disinterested passersby, he looked like another businessman on the hunt for a second or third suit. Which, he supposed, was what he was. He threw a quick glance out the window. "No sign of him, but I get the feeling he's not far. I don't think he's very good at this sort of detective work."

"Why do you say that, Mr. Reese?"

"He used John Smith as an alias."

"He earns points for simplicity, I suppose."

"Certainly not believability." He turned and examined a display of neckties. "This friend of his might be our best chance at getting close to him."

"You're taking this awfully quickly, don't you think?"

"The Machine told us to move quickly, so I'm moving quickly. I…" He paused, fighting the memory of a good man dead in a wheelchair, eaten alive by polonium. "I won't be too late again, Finch."

"I wouldn't fret, Mr. Reese. The Machine would not have sent us his name if there wasn't time."

John swallowed an argument as the Doctor's friend burst through the door, cheeks flushed with cold, grinning a mile-wide grin. She strode right up to him as if he had known her a hundred years.

"Hello there. You were in that bakery a few minutes ago, weren't you?"

John smiled. It wasn't every day a number did his work for him. "Guilty as charged."

"I'm Donna Noble," she said, offering a gloved hand. John shook it.

"John Reese."

"Well then, John….I know this is a bit abrupt, but would you care to meet for dinner?"

"Tonight?"

Donna laughed. "Yes, of course tonight! Unless you'd rather wait a week to eat something?"

"No, no, tonight is fine. I know of a place not far from here." Upscale, but not so much he tipped his hand, with plenty of security cameras for the Machine to use. He gave her the address.

Donna gave him a coy smile in return. "You were thinking of asking me first, weren't you?"

"Again, guilty as charged."

She laughed and playfully punched his arm. "This must be fate or something!"

"Or something."

Donna laughed again on her way out the door. "I'll see you tonight, Mr. Fate-or-Something. Seven o' clock, and don't even _think _of showing up late!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, and turned from the window as the door closed. "That was easy," he said into his Bluetooth.

"I'll say." Finch's fingers were already clattering across the keyboard, seeking out every scrap of available information on Donna Noble. "Quite forward, isn't she?"

"Makes my job easier." He lifted a dark blue jacket and compared it to a black one. "Tell me, Finch, would a new jacket be considered overkill for a woman I just met?"

* * *

Donna found the Doctor outside, standing in the cold of an alley, staring at the painted brick as though it could tell him something. Perhaps it could. It would be so easy to mock him right then, but she suppressed the urge. Better to save the insults for a time she really needed them. "Done and done."

"You did it?"

"This John Reese and I have a date tonight at seven."

The Doctor laughed. "Donna, you're brilliant."

Donna grinned. "Glad you finally noticed."

"Where are you meeting him?"

She gave him the name of the restaurant, and his eyes widened.

"You're not serious. He's taking you _there_?"

"Why? Is it awful?"

"No, I hear it's wonderful. At sixty dollars—forty pounds—a plate, it must be."

Donna's jaw dropped. "My God! What, does he just _throw _money about? Use it as confetti at birthday parties? 'Have a very happy birthday, little boy, and a thousand on me!'"

"He's got money, that's for sure."

"And no trouble spending it." She gave another incredulous laugh. "Forty pounds. My God."

The Doctor stood, watching the wall, hands shoved in his pockets. "He's a strange one, that's for sure." Then, almost to himself: "Where have I seen him before?"

Now seemed a good time to break out the insults. "I don't know, Spaceman. What're you asking me for?"

* * *

Carter was off-duty when the payphone rang.

As a homicide detective for the NYPD, she prided herself on not scaring easily; all the same, she jumped a bit when it rang right as she passed it. At seven-thirty on a November night, who wouldn't? She allowed herself a laugh as she watched to see who might answer the call.

No one moved.

The phone rang again.

People on the sidewalk began to look at each other, question each other.

It rang again.

Carter scoffed at the fear coiling in her gut. It was just a payphone. Their numbers weren't exactly guarded secrets. Probably just some idiot kid pulling what he thought was a brilliant prank. She walked on.

Another payphone rang.

She kept going.

Another ring.

She stopped again. No one moved to answer; a few giggled and whispered among themselves. "Probably just some stupid prank," she said to everyone and no one.

It kept ringing.

She sighed and reached for the receiver. Time to give that smart-ass kid a piece of her mind.

"Hi there, I'm Detective Jocelyn Carter with the NYPD."

Music played. It might have been the darkness or the hollow wail of the organ that did it, but Carter's heart began to pound.

"Hello?"

The organ played on.

"You tell me who this is right now, or I swear we'll trace this call!" It was a lie, but one that usually worked.

A woman's voice began to sing.

_"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…" _

"Who is this?"

_"The voice which calls to me, and speaks my name…" _

Carter didn't dare speak. She couldn't. Fear had driven it out.

_"And do I dream again? For now I find  
_"_The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind…"_

Once Christine had said her piece, the line went dead mid-note. Carter listened, hoping—yes, even expecting—to hear another ring, a voice, anything beyond a dial tone, but the dial tone was all she heard.

She placed the phone in its cradle and hailed a taxi. Miracle of miracles, she found one almost instantly.

"That's two blocks away, lady," the driver said when she gave him her address.

"Do I look like I care? Drive."

He drove.

The song followed her home.


	3. Chapter 3

John's restaurant of choice turned out to be a steakhouse, and the moment Donna saw the menu, she realized the Doctor had been mistaken. Sixty dollars a plate was little more than a conservative guess.

"_Seventeen dollars _for a _salad_?" She thought she said it quietly—and at any rate, John couldn't see her lips move through the menu shielding her face—but he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Sorry," he said in that quiet voice of his. How on earth did he ever talk on the phone? "I suppose when you start doing well in life, your standards of what's expensive and what's not change a bit."

Donna lowered her menu, hoping he wouldn't notice her blushing. "No, it's all right. It's just culture shock, I suppose."

An amused smile tugged at John's lips. "I suppose all restaurants in Britain are reasonably priced?"

She laughed in derision. "Don't you wish! You've never _been _to Britian, have you?"

"I have, actually. Beautiful country."

"When?"

"Couple years ago." He took a sip of water. No wine, Donna had noticed, and silently cursed him for it. If he was going to spend the evening sober, she couldn't afford to risk her own sobriety. Plus, wine was expensive. No matter what John said about doing well in life, she couldn't exploit his generosity.

"Were you just traveling there for fun, or was it for work?"

"For work."

He offered no further information. Donna had been on enough dates to realize when she was about to step on a toe, so she changed the subject. "So what do you do for a living? Drug lord, organized crime boss, pawn in the pay of an alien race bent on the destruction of Earth?"

John laughed. If the last line had spooked him the way Donna thought it might, he hid it well. "None of those. I work for a private employer. A small business, you might say."

"Oh?" Donna laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. "Do tell."

"Most of what I do is exceedingly boring—running errands, contacting clients, that sort of thing. But my employer pays well—"

"So you keep at it. I know how it is. You get a bit of money, and it makes a terrible job worth it."

"You're in the same boat, then?"

"Oh, no. I love what I do."

"What do you do?"

Donna froze. What _did _she do? "I…" _stop invasions free Oods keep the Doctor from being a dolt _"Travel. I travel."

"For a living?"

She scanned his face. Nothing showed on it but casual and friendly interest, but the last time she had fallen for that, she had been poisoned. Donna smiled. "Yes. I do. Quite a good job, if you can manage it."

"Sounds interesting. Where do you go?"

_Ancient Pompeii the Ood home world wherever Sontarans park their ships _"Everywhere. I just pop from one country to another, doing whatever needs doing, and then I pop on back home for a bit before doing it all again."

"Must be hectic."

"A bit. But I quite enjoy it."

"It sounds like you do." He frowned at his menu for a moment, and then looked up at her. "Care for an appetizer?"

"No, I'm all right." John seemed like a gentleman, but even gentlemen could insist on splitting the tab. She longed to ask—some of those appetizers sounded delicious—but she didn't dare. "So, ah, what brought you to New York?"

For the briefest moment, his eyes clouded. "It's a long story."

"We have time." She thought her friendly smile would put him at ease, but he stared at the menu as if it were written in hieroglyphics.

Donna decided to give him a moment, using that moment to take a look around. Beyond the overall cleanliness and attractiveness of the restaurant, beyond the ever-smiling servers and customers chatting with one another, there was something there. Only after staring down one blinking red light after another did Donna realize what it was.

"Do all restaurants in New York have cameras?"

"Some of them do. Not all, but some. Helps owners keep an eye on their businesses."

She decided to file that bit of information away in the "Will Wonder About That Later" file.

"Do you have any family back in Britain?"

"Mum. And Granddad."

"Just you three?"

"Just us three." Donna's thoughts drifted back to that house, to the two of them. Granddad was more likely than not watching the skies through his telescope, watching for any sign of his granddaughter and the man who had promised to take care of her. Mum was probably telling him to stop that rubbish and get back inside before he caught cold.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh. Nothing. It's—it's nothing." She cleared her throat. "Do you have any family here? Not in New York, exactly, but anywhere else?"

"None to speak of."

"I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault."

That horrible silence descended again, and try as she might, Donna could think of no way to break it. Not in a way that got her the information she wanted.

She needed a new approach.

Donna leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you see that man out there in the lobby on our way in?"

"Which one?"

"The one who looked like Santa Claus."

John smiled. "The one who was stuffing rolls of silverware into his pants?"

Donna laughed. "I thought I was the only one who saw that!"

"No, no, I saw it too. I think we're the only ones. Us and the cameras."

"He got thrown out."

"I saw that. Looks like he was using some pretty colorful language."

"How'd he even get in?"

"Didn't look homeless. Seemed pretty well-off to me."

"Which begs the question of why he was stealing silverware."

John frowned, and shrugged. "Maybe he just likes silverware. You really shouldn't judge."

The twinkle in his eye made her laugh.

* * *

New York City was a rather nice city after dark.

Oh, it had your standard big-city problems. The less well-kept streets and alleys were littered with garbage and graffiti. Young men with low-slung pants and poorly concealed pistols congregated in groups of three or five. One such group took a wad of bills from a young man in a business suit, handing him a small package wrapped in plastic. The Doctor watched them for a minute, debating what to do first: take their guns and toss them in the river, take the drugs and grind them into the cement, or fetch them a few belts from the TARDIS.

He decided on the belts. He could take their guns and drugs once he was close enough. But when he turned away to scout the most direct path to the TARDIS, gangsters and businessman alike melted into the darkness.

He walked on.

Still and all, New York wasn't bad. The buildings were nowhere near as tall as those in New New York, allowing light down to the lowest levels. Even walking down the street, you could see the stars, and the glittering lights that adorned skyscrapers and shops alike, like a tower of man-made stars reaching to the sky.

The Doctor smiled. Humans certainly were a marvelous race.

If only the Daleks could have embraced them.

He tried to shake the memories away, but they remained there, stuck like dead bugs to new paint. Sec in chains. Lightning coursing through his limbs. Thousands of people, a brand-new race, dead before they hit the floor. No chance to argue their existence. No chance to prove themselves. No chance to change the Daleks' course, even by a hair.

No chance for him to explain.

No chance to say he was sorry.

Nine hundred years was a long time for anyone to be around, and it was long enough for the Doctor to learn that some memories were like wars. Fighting them was pointless. So he wrapped his hands around a cold metal rail separating him from the river and let the memories come, one after the other, each one bringing a fresh wave of pain.

There was nothing he could do.

Not then.

Not in 1930.

Not ever.

Nothing would have stopped it. He knew this, and yet—and yet—

It was a fixed point in time. One of those things that had to happen. Like Pompeii.

Dear God, _Pompeii_…

A payphone rang.

He frowned. A handful of New Yorkers milled about, but he was the only one near enough to a payphone to answer. So he did.

"Hello?"

After a brief whirr of static, a woman's voice responded.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," the Doctor said slowly. "Who is this and why do you care?"

A man's voice answered, the word clipped as though it had been lifted from another conversation and repurposed for this one, like letters in a ransom note. "You."

Then a teenage boy's: "Will."

And then another man's: "Learn."

"I will learn? Learn what? Who are you?"

The same response came, in the same way: "You."

"Will."

"Learn."

"Who is this?"

"Be."

"Patient.

"Do not."

"Despair."

"The only thing I'm despairing over is that you won't tell me who you are!"

"Be."

"Patient."

"I can't be patient when I don't know who I'm speaking to!"

The voices were silent a moment. The Doctor listened for the telltale dial tone, signaling both victory over and defeat from the voices, but heard only the crackle of static.

Then, three words that chilled him through and through:

"Sec."

"Was."

"Right."

Then a click.

Then the dial tone.

* * *

John was a perfect gentleman, and he spent the date doing everything perfect gentlemen did. He held the door. He ordered a dessert of Donna's choosing. He picked up the tab. But most important of all, he treated their waiter with the same courtesy he showed to her—smiling, laughing, apologizing for silly little annoyances. Still, there was a chance he might not follow through…

Donna watched him out the corner of her eye as she pulled on her coat. John tried to conceal the bills he slipped in with the check, but Donna was too quick for him: She saw two twenty-dollar bills just before he closed the check sleeve.

Dear God. Did he make a _game _of spending—something called Let's See How Much Money I Can Give to People I'll Forget?

The idea made Donna like him more.

No. Bad. Bad Donna. She couldn't like him. He was someone she needed to watch. A subject of study. She had to remain objective.

"Is there anyplace else you'd like to go?" John asked her as they emerged into the freezing November air.

There were a hundred places she would have liked to go, but she didn't allow herself to consider any of them. "I really should be getting back."

"Of course." He stamped his foot as though angry for not thinking of it before. "I meant to ask: how long will you be in New York?"

"I don't know." She suspected the Doctor would insist upon leaving the moment she set foot back in the TARDIS and felt the sharp pang of disappointment. "Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a few days. It's sort of unpredictable, this business of mine."

"I see." John looked disappointed too. "Can I give you my phone number?"

"Sure!" Too eager. She cleared her throat and tried again. "If you want."

He scribbled his number on a piece of paper—_the man is prepared for anything_—and handed it to her. Donna borrowed a scrap of paper and a pen from him and did the same.

"Well then, I guess that's it," he said.

"I guess it is."

"I suppose asking if I could walk you to your car would be futile, since you probably didn't bring one."

Donna laughed. "Oh, yes, I just crammed it in my suitcase. Tried to make it a carryon, but the airline said no."

John chuckled. "Those airlines."

A moment of silence passed.

"I'd better hail a cab," Donna said at last.

"Well then, have a good night. Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow."

"Hope so."

He gave her no good-night kiss, not even a chaste one on her cheek. It was better that way, she decided. Their date had been nothing more than a fact-finding mission, so it was best there was no kiss.

On the other hand, he was so _nice _and _charming _and _intriguing…_

Donna pushed those thoughts from her mind and hailed a cab.

She wasn't sure what she expected when she entered the TARDIS, but she certainly didn't expect what she found.

It was the Doctor, huddled beneath a central control panel. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, his face buried.

"Doctor?"

He didn't respond; then again, Donna had said it quietly. She said his name again, louder.

"Doctor?"

"That you, Donna?"

"No, I mugged her and took her key to the TARDIS. Yes, it's me."

He still did not look up. "We can't leave."

"Can't leave? What do you mean? Is—is there something wrong with the TARDIS?"

"No, no, the TARDIS is fine." He drew a shaking breath and raised his head. He hadn't been crying, so far as Donna could tell—and that was something. "I got a phone call."

That alone was warning enough. Donna sat down on the floor, preparing herself for whatever terrible thing the Doctor was about to tell her.

She wasn't prepared.

"My God," she said when he finished explaining. "That's—it's—"

"Don't try. There's not a word for it, so don't even try."

"_Unthinkable,_" she said. He was right: it wasn't enough. "And this—whoever it was on the phone—they _knew_?"

The Doctor nodded.

"How can they know about a—a—genocide—that happened in 1930 that only you survived?"

He shook his head, sighing. "That's why we can't leave."

"Because they know."

"Because they know—and we have to find out why."


	4. Chapter 4

Ten o'clock had nearly come and gone when John was finally seated in the back of a cab on his way back to his apartment, but he called Finch anyway. As expected, he was awake and ready with a list of information.

"Well, the first thing you should know about Donna Noble is that she's married," he said.

John raised a brow. "She never said."

"I'd imagine most women engaged in extramarital affairs do not inform their dates of their marital status," Finch said.

"I knew _that_. But she never let on." He watched neon signs and lit windows pass him by. "Usually they act like they're hiding something. Glance out the window, check their phones, that sort of thing." He tried another tack. "How long have they been married?"

"Since late 2009. Happily, so far as I can tell. They received a winning lottery ticket as a wedding gift and have traveled extensively since then."

"Together or separately?"

"Together. Always together. I can't find a single record of any solo trips."

"Doesn't sound like a recipe for infidelity to me."

"That's because it's not, Mr. Reese. She has no reason to cheat on her husband, very little opportunity….and yet _she _approached _you._"

"I know."

* * *

Carter couldn't sleep.

It was stupid, she knew, to be so distraught over a little music pouring through a payphone. Either it was a prank, and a bad one at that; or it was the kidnapper trying to get in her head. She couldn't let him. To let the perpetrator of a case that wasn't hers would distract her from her work.

But every time she thought of the music, the voice, the darkness of the night, she got chills all over again.

_Don't let him into your head, don't let him in there, just focus on what you've got right now. _

Her cell phone vibrated.

Carter started, then chided herself. What kind of a cop got spooked by a cell phone? She checked the text.

_I know something about Jessica Bailey. _

* * *

"Hang on, Finch." John hit the flash button on his cell, cutting the call-waiting chime short. "What's going on, Carter?"

"I could ask you the same question." From her tone, he could picture her stance: arms folded, feet apart, leveling a gaze that would make the bravest soldier quail. He was somewhat glad he wasn't there to see it. "How the _hell _did you know about Jessica Bailey?"

"Who's Jessica Bailey?"

"Don't pretend you don't know, John."

"I'm not pretending."

Carter was silent a moment. "You didn't text me and block the number."

"If I wanted to text you, I'd text you. Blocking the number would just waste time."

She fell silent again, and John knew she was scared.

"Tell me what the text said."

"Just that whoever sent it knew something about Jessica Bailey." John waited for Carter to fill in the blanks. "She's this girl. Early twenties. Went missing two nights ago. Detective working her case asked for my help, but there wasn't much I could do, seeing how the guy who took her didn't leave much of a crime scene."

"What did they find? Any footprints, tire tracks, trace DNA?"

"Nope. Nothing. Whoever it was is slick."

John turned this information over in his mind. Any fatigue he had had before vanished. If Jessica Bailey had vanished, the Machine would have picked up on it. And if the Machine had picked up on it, it would have sent them her number well before she was kidnapped.

Unless something had tampered with it.

Like a virus.

Or Root.

But he repeated himself.

"You don't have any leads, I take it?"

"No, but—" She stopped mid-thought and changed direction. "You wouldn't know anyone who pranks people by calling payphones, would you?"

Just the Machine, but it wouldn't waste a call with a prank. "What happened?"

"Ah, it's probably nothing." The small catch in her voice betrayed the lie. She didn't think it was nothing. "Just had someone play 'Phantom of the Opera' when I picked up the phone, that's all."

"The entire song?"

"Just the first verse. Why?"

"No reason." Yet. "I was just curious."

"John, if you know what's going on—"

"I don't, Carter." He gazed out the window at the city passing by, the motion of the car blurring orderly buildings and sidewalk traffic into confusion. "I'd tell you if I did."

She was silent again. "All right, then. I'm going to bed."

"Call me if you get any more texts."

He dialed Finch the second she disconnected.

"We may have a problem."

* * *

Donna awoke to the whirs and bleeps of an active TARDIS, and wasn't surprised in the least to find the Doctor at the control panel.

"The call came over a payphone," he explained, "so I'm running a scan of all the payphones in the city."

"Every single one, eh? I'm sure that'll narrow it down."

"Well, I've already pinpointed the exact phone where I received the call. The first scan said it came from another payphone, so I'm trying to find which one. From there, we'll find whoever called from it using security footage from the nearby cameras."

"Should be easy, since no one uses payphones anymore."

The Doctor grinned. "That's what I thought! You've got to love mobiles, eh?" He pushed a few buttons, and Donna wished the coffee was ready. Just a few more minutes before the sweet, sweet nectar of life was—

"That's odd."

"Did you find someone using a payphone?"

"No. I—I can't access the footage. The security footage. The—the TARDIS is locked out. I can't get to it."

She yawned, not out of boredom, but because she couldn't help it. "Guess some companies don't like spacemen fiddling with their cameras."

"She shouldn't be locked out!" His fist pounded a panel. "She's never locked out! Completely invisible, undetectable—no one knows she's even _looking _at the cameras!"

He looked so defeated, so distressed, that Donna stood and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's five years in the future. Plenty of time for security to improve."

"You don't understand." His shoulders slumped. "I've done this before, in places with far better security than New York, and it's always worked. Always. It's even worked here, in this city."

Donna blinked, the implications coming to her in an instant. "You're saying someone knows what we're up to and is deliberately locking us out."

"Not just someone. _The _someone. The someone who controls the city."

She rolled her eyes. "Look, Doctor, I don't know who the mayor is in 2013, but I doubt he's any less of a dumbo than the one they've got now. Er—then. Back then. You know what I mean."

He looked at the screen, which displayed two words written in red: _Access Denied. _"I'm not talking about the mayor."

"Then who?"

"I don't know."

* * *

Jessica Bailey.

_I know something about Jessica Bailey. _

_ I know something…._

_ I know something…._

Carter swore under her breath and gulped her coffee. Jessica Bailey wasn't her case. Whoever sent that text had sent it to the wrong cop.

_Jessica Baily. _

_ Jessica Bailey. _

_ I know something about Jessica Bailey. _

She seized the first opportunity to ask Detective Morgan about her, but she just shook her head.

Carter glanced at the text once more. She should report it. Yes—report it. That should have been her first act. This text had HR written all over it.

Then again, did she _really _want the NYPD snooping around in her phone?

And if the text was from someone in HR, it just proved HR had ties to the NYPD. Which meant that giving the NYPD access to her phone was as good as handing it over to HR.

Carter's head swam. She was running on two hours' sleep, four cups of coffee, and adrenaline, and it still wasn't enough.

Her phone vibrated.

_JB wasn't kidnapped. _

Blocked number again.

_Who the hell is this? _

It went through.

_Move away from the cameras and I'll tell you more about Jessica. _

She couldn't do it. She shouldn't. This was probably how Jessica vanished.

_I'll text you from wherever the hell I want. _

Her phone fell silent. Carter slipped it into her pocket and, after a moment, went back to her desk. She had too much work of her own to focus on Morgan's case.

* * *

The call came when John was out in Manhattan, interrupting the call he was placing to Donna Noble.

"I discovered some new information about the Doctor, Mr. Reese."

Given how far off the grid he was, any information was new information. "What's that?"

Finch was silent a moment. John heard voices in the background, faint and obscured, as though they came from a recording.

"I don't quite know how to say this, Mr. Reese….but…the Doctor is dead."

The news hit like a blow. John sank onto the nearest bench. They had failed. He had failed. "How?"

"Radiation poisoning."

John closed his eyes and covered them with his hand. A hail of gunfire would have been kinder. "How….what kind of radiation, Finch?"

"I hardly think that's important, Mr. Reese."

"Of course it's important. It's our first clue to finding the bastard who killed him." He got to his feet and started walking. Where wasn't important—he would figure that out on the way. "How did it happen?"

"I believe the question you should be asking is _when._"

"It couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours ago." He quickened his pace, but Finch's next words brought him to a halt.

"December 2009 was a good deal more than twenty-four hours ago, Mr. Reese."

* * *

Central Park.

That was where the mystery texter had sent her, and Carter had to admit it made sense. This was the last place Jessica Bailey had been seen. Yellow crime-scene tape cordoned off a good portion of it.

A few cops milled about it, taking notes. Detective Morgan and her partner stood in the center of it all. Morgan's pencil flew across her notepad, and her partner took slow, deliberate steps around the crime scene. A reporter stood behind the yellow line, waving a digital voice recorder about like a street hawker selling her wares to passersby.

Carter stayed back. It was bad enough that she had used her lunch break to attend a crime scene that wasn't part of her caseload, but if she was seen it would take a damn good lie to deflect suspicion.

As she suspected, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The Department may as well have cordoned off a random section of the park, for all the good it seemed to do them. None of the detectives or CSIs seemed to be having any luck, either.

Carter walked to a bench and sat down with her lunch, turning her back to the crime scene. It was just a coincidence that she was here. Nothing more than a coincidence that happened to be engineered by someone at the other end of a blocked telephone line.

Nothing suspicious there.

She was nearly finished with her lunch when a payphone rang.

_Not again. _

It rang a second time.

Sighing, Carter got to her feet and marched toward it. "Listen, you got five seconds to tell me who you are, or you're in for a world of hurt."

"Eight o'clock." She didn't recognize the voice.

"What the hell?"

"Eight o'clock." A man's voice this time.

Carter swallowed as the meaning revealed itself. There was someone behind her, just behind and to the left.

She turned.

Nothing.

"All right," she said into the receiver. "You've had your fun. Now tell me who you are."

"Six o'clock."

She saw a figure this time, but it was too far in the distance for her to make out any features. Could that be their kidnapper?

Carter left the phone off the hook and took a few steps toward the figure. She expected movement, but it stayed where it was, arms outstretched.

A few steps more, and she rolled her eyes. Those weren't arms at all, but wings. The mystery voice had led her to a statue.

She returned to the payphone and lifted the receiver. "All right, all right, I get it. You're good. Good enough to gloat a bit. But let me tell you something, buddy—"

Organ music poured through the receiver.

Oh no.

Not this again.

Carter slammed the receiver down just as the Phantom began to sing.


	5. Chapter 5

"Turn it off."

Harold Finch gratefully clicked the small red X at the top of the screen. The video disappeared. He had seen people die, and each time had torn a hole in his chest. But it wasn't the death that made the security footage so disturbing. Death was something private—sacred, even, in the darkest sense of the word. Staying with a stranger until the end was one thing. Watching him stumble down the street in the throes of radiation poisoning was entirely different. Add to it the distance of time and the impersonal nature of a computer screen, and the act of watching became perverse.

Finch glanced at Reese, pausing to scratch Bear's ears as he did. Reese stood a few feet from the computer desk, hands grasping the window ledge, head bowed. Finch felt a stab of pity mingled with admiration. How a man who had seen and caused death so often could mourn at all was beyond Finch's comprehension.

A long moment passed, and when Reese spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "When did you say that footage was taken?"

"January 1, 2005." The date, like that of any important death, was burned into his memory.

Reese shook his head. "That doesn't make sense, Finch. You said he was poisoned in 2009."

"That's right."

"So how could he die four years earlier?"

"How is he here _now_, Mr. Reese? I think that's the question we should be asking."

Reese sighed and straightened. "In 2009, he absorbs enough radiation to destroy Europe and then some. He succumbs to it in 2005. And then, in 2013, he appears in New York, none the worse for wear."

Finch stroked Bear's fur and let the facts circle his mind for a moment. There were times when it was useful to simply sit and ponder the nonsensical. Often, a quiet mind would let the nonsense sort itself out.

But what use was any of it when their number had died four years ago?

"Do you think someone might have tampered with the footage? Changed the timestamps?"

"I don't see why anyone would, unless they wanted the illusion of time travel."

Reese gave a mirthless smile. "People do stranger things every day. Could've been one of those conspiracy theorists on that website. You did say there were Doctor sightings in Victorian London."

Finch liked that theory. Every aspect of it was believable, save for one. "These videos weren't on the website, Mr. Reese."

"They weren't on the pages you visited, you mean."

"After the Machine sent me the first video—the one where the Doctor is poisoned—I searched the website for any links. They don't exist."

"No one linked to them?"

"I don't see how they could. They were rather heavily encrypted—beyond the reach of the average hacker."

Reese sighed. "So we're back at square one, with a man who died four, maybe eight years ago, and no conspiracies to pin it on."

A single, crazy theory nagged at the back of his mind, but Finch didn't share it.

* * *

Don't let a serial killer into your head.

That piece of advice was as old as the old reminder to stave off stage fright by imagining the audience in their underwear, and every bit as useless. There was no way to keep a serial killer out of your head. Once you interacted with one, he was in, and there he made himself comfortable.

Carter began learning this just after the call.

She tried not to panic, willed herself to remain calm. She was a homicide detective. This killer—there was no convincing her he was anything but—would soon be her responsibility. On her territory. Her terms. The minute the first body showed up, she would bring him down.

But what kind of a killer gloated _before _dumping his first body? That was just dumb. Letting the NYPD think he was a kidnapper would have been a better call.

No. She couldn't do this. She couldn't think about it yet.

Then again, what kind of serial killer gloated with an angel statue?

Carter pushed the matter from her mind. She had to save her energy for her current caseload.

Or report it. If they had a serial killer on their hands….

Yes. That's what she would do. Report it.

She took out her cell phone.

* * *

_Got 1 more call. Think it's the killer. Call ASAP. Carter._

_ What killer? _

_ The one who kidnapped JB. Think it's a serial killer. _

_ Why? _

_ Gloating. Can we talk over phone or in person? _

_ Call you in two seconds. _

* * *

Helping the Doctor was all well and good, but there came a time when it all became too much. Donna's time came just around lunch, when she realized that hey—she was in New York City, and there were better things to do than sit around the TARDIS waiting for the Doctor to break through whatever firewall was blocking access to payphone and security camera records. Donna gave him her friendliest goodbye before slipping out the door.

"I'm going out to have fun, you dumbo! Catch up when you've learned how!"

He tossed her a wave and a weary smile.

That changed her plans. Time for a little detective work of her own.

The call had come over a payphone, so a payphone was the most likely place to receive another. But which one? New York had thousands of payphones, dotting block after block, and whoever had called the Doctor might dial any one of them. She might be blocks away when he dialed the correct phone, or just a few steps past it when someone else answered.

Donna decided to take a walk. She bought lunch at the first food truck she saw and made a point to pass every payphone she could. It made the city seem less enormous.

She had just reached the edge of Central Park when a payphone rang.

Donna squealed, which was difficult with a bite of hot dog in her mouth, and nearly choked. She hurried over, coughing and sputtering, and lifted the receiver at the fifth ring.

"Hello?"

A man's voice answered. "You're sure it's a serial killer?"

John Reese! "John! Is that you? Why didn't you just call my mobile?"

"What else could it be, John?" A woman's voice this time. From the sound of it, she hadn't heard Donna at all.

"An angel, you said?"

"Yeah. I think it might be an angel of death thing—like he sees himself as an angel of death. Don't know why he uses a statue, but I suppose that's the arrogance talking. "

John sighed.

"I know, I know, it's the last thing you want to deal with. Me too."

"John? Can you hear me?"

Both voices were silent a moment, and Donna thought she may have been heard. The next bit drove all thoughts of speaking from her mind.

"There wasn't anything else but the statue?"

"No."

"And it was gone when you turned around?"

"Yeah. Told you this guy is slick."

John sighed again. "Too slick. There might be multiple killers working this one."

"Have to be, if one guy's calling cops while the other's hauling statues around."

"You're sure there weren't any moving trucks or forklifts in the area?"

"If there was, I would've seen them."

"All right. I'll tell Finch, and we'll see what we can find. Call us if you learn anything."

"I will, John."

"And Carter?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay away from Central Park."

Carter sniffed. "Don't have to tell me twice."

John gave a weary laugh, and both lines disconnected.

Donna dashed for the TARDIS, leaving the receiver dangling from its cord.

* * *

"Moving statues. Central Park. John Reese knows."

The Doctor whipped off his glasses. "Knows what?"

"About the statues, you dumbo!"

"What kind of statues?"

"I don't—oh! He did say! Angel statues! Moving angel statues in Central Park!"

"My God." The Doctor grabbed his coat and brushed past Donna on his way out the door. "This is bad, Donna. This is very, very bad."

"I guessed _that. _Just tell me why."

He paused and looked at her in a way that told her she was about to learn more than she ever wanted to know. "Who did you say was talking with our friend John?"

"Someone named Carter. A woman."

"Was there anything else? What does she do? Did you hear that much?"

"I…oh! I think she's a police officer. She said something about calling cops—"

"Tell me on the way. For now, we run."

* * *

Seconds after disconnecting, John's cell phone rang.

"Just got a text from our mystery number."

John's blood went cold. "How did the killer get your cell number?"

"I don't know." Her voice trembled. Her voice never trembled. "Picture doesn't make any sense, either."

"What picture? What did he send you?"

"It's—" She stopped. "Oh my God. He's following me."

"Where are you?"

"Still in the park. North Woods."

John had already started jogging, cursing the four blocks between himself and Carter. "What does he look like?"

"I—I don't know. It's just the statue."

"He's _moving _the statue? How the hell are you not seeing him?"

"_I don't know! _All I know is I haven't moved and the statue has!"

"Get out of there. Now."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing, John?"

* * *

Donna was already out of breath when they reached the eastern edge of the park. "Living statues?"

"Not quite, but close enough." The Doctor was panting as well, but he didn't slacken his pace. "Weeping angels. Very dangerous."

"If they send you back in time, why don't you just go back and _get _the people they send?"

The Doctor came to a halt and spun in one circle, then another. "No way to tell where they go. Now, if I were a weeping angel, where would I be?"

* * *

John heard Carter's feet tramping the grass. "Oh my God, it's closer."

John swerved around a woman with a stroller and picked up speed. "Are there any crowds nearby?"

"_North Woods, _John! Just me and the—" She swore.

"How far is the statue?"

"Hundred feet, maybe."

The killer could be anywhere. "I'm almost there. Keep your weapon drawn."

"Who the hell am I gonna shoot, John? The statue?"

* * *

"If I were an angel statue, I wouldn't be where anyone could see me, that's for sure."

"North Woods! That's it!" The Doctor took off. "Donna, you're brilliant!"

Donna groaned. "Can't we take a taxi?"

* * *

John didn't stop at the crosswalk, but darted on through. Car horns blared and drivers swore as they swerved and slammed on their brakes.

"Do you see the killer yet?"

Carter was silent a moment. "My God."

"What? Who is it? Where is he?"

"It—it's nobody. The statue, John. It's….it's _moving._"

With great effort, John resisted stopping in his tracks. He didn't waste energy processing what Carter had said.

"Get out of there."

"I—it moved again, John."

"I don't care what the hell it's doing! Run!"

She panted into the receiver, her voice choked. "I—I can't, John. It's too fast."

"It's a statue, Carter. They don't move."

"This one does!" She sounded on the verge of tears. "Every time I turn around—every damn time—it's closer."

"Keep running. I'm almost there." He pushed through branches with one hand, feeling in his coat pocket with the other.

"It's not gonna work. It's too fast."

John stopped. Jocelyn Carter was giving up. She never gave up. And if that was what she was doing now…

John spoke, the lie forming as he fed it to her. "It's not going to kill you. We haven't seen any bodies yet, have we? So those victims must still be alive."

"Right."

He knew she didn't believe him, but he kept at it. "Send me a message. Whatever that statue does, wherever that son of a bitch takes you, tell me where you are. You hear me? I don't care if you have to bulldoze the Empire State Building. You tell me where you are."

"All right, John." She was tiring.

So was he.

He crested a hill and saw her tearing through the woods. The statue was still a good twenty feet away. "I see you. You're still ahead. Keep running."

She did.

But it didn't work.

Carter ran at a somewhat steady pace, but every time John blinked, the statue had jumped ahead.

He ran.

The statue was fifteen feet away.

Ten feet.

Five.

No more Carter.

John stopped so quickly he almost ran into a tree, and blinked in disbelief. Carter wasn't there.

And the statue was watching him.

* * *

Twenty minutes ago, he wouldn't have believed it. He would have scoffed, dismissing it as impossible. But now the impossible was staring him in the face, demanding to be called possible.

First, he needed confirmation. He blinked.

The statue turned its body toward him. He tilted his head and blinked again.

The statue's head was tilted to one side, a smile stretching its stone lips.

Taunting.

Gloating.

John sucked in a few lungfuls of air, maintaining eye contact with the statue. It didn't move.

So. It either wouldn't or couldn't move when it was being watched. That was useful.

John closed his eyes. "You took my friend."

He opened them. The statue was closer now, and if he wasn't mistaken, its smile had widened.

He closed them again. "Did you kill her?"

The lips had parted, revealing two rows of sharpened stone teeth, still arrayed in a ghastly smile.

John drew a few more breaths, the icy wind hitting his lungs like a blow. He heard crashing footsteps in the distance, but ignored them for now. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

The smile widened.

"How about Jessica Bailey? Did you kill her, too?"

Still the smile. Still closer.

John felt in the interior pocket of his coat, silently blessing the last number. It had been one of those desperate situations, one that could only be resolved by the most desperate of measures.

"Let me tell you something. I'm not like you."

The statue was now fifty, maybe sixty feet away.

"I don't enjoy killing. Not even psychopaths like you."

Its smile turned mocking.

"But this is my city. And I do what I must when I protect what's mine."

It tilted its head. Curious. Still smiling. Still showing its teeth.

John smiled too.

"Come closer, and I'll show you."

His hand found something round and rough, etched with deep grooves. He smiled—and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the statue was a foot away.

Right where he wanted it.

John winked one eye and then the other. The statue didn't move.

Perfect.

He drew the grenade from the interior pocket of his coat. Desperate times, indeed.

The crashing noise grew louder, closer. Donna Noble's voice floated through the trees.

John still did not look away.

He tore the pin from the grenade with his teeth and spat it out. He let it fall to the forest floor, resting at the statue's feet.

"Stay back, Donna," he called. "Don't come any closer."

He winked his left eye and then his right. Both were beginning to sting, but he ignored it.

The statue didn't move.

"Stay back."

He ran backward as quickly as he could, covering five feet in a few steps.

Ten feet away.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

The Doctor's face came into view, followed by Donna's.

All watched the statue turn to rubble.


	6. Chapter 6

Deafening silence followed the explosion. Through the ringing in his ears, John could hear nothing else: no birds sang, no cyclists whirred through the woods, no running shoes slapped the pavement as joggers called to one another. There was nothing in the woods but ringing silence and the echo of the explosion's roar.

John had managed to run a relatively safe distance away, far enough that the explosion rocked his feet and made him clutch a tree for support. Donna and the Doctor had not been so lucky. Without a word, John crossed the singed earth, stepping over cracked trunks and splintered branches, and helped the Doctor to his feet. Donna took more convincing.

"Donna." Her name sounded odd. Muted. She may not have heard it. "Donna," he said again, nudging her with his shoe. She remained crouched on the ground, arms covering her head. Not a bad strategy.

John knelt down and attempted to pry her arm away.

That was a mistake.

Donna leaped to her feet and advanced on him, gesturing wildly, shouting so quickly her words were barely intelligible.

"You _idiot!_ What the hell were you thinking—you could've blown us all to smithereens! Could've burned the forest down—burned down New York, for that matter—"

John, who had been backed up against a tree, put both hands on her shoulders. "The statue would have killed us anyway."

Donna brushed his hands off. "Oh, so it'd all be worth it when some poor dumbo was picking up pieces of us off the sidewalk, would it?"

"We're all still intact, aren't we?"

"You killed it."

John, for some reason, hadn't expected the Doctor to speak. State of shock, he had guessed—a condition that had unfortunately passed Donna by. He had knelt on the ground, studying a piece of rubble without touching it. "Looks that way."

"Without finding out what it was or why it was there?"

"It was a psychopath. Killed for the fun of it."

The Doctor straightened, brushing the dirt off his hands. "And how long did it take you to learn that, eh? You couldn't have had more than, oh, ten minutes, maybe? More? Less?"

John felt irritation turn to anger and did his best to curb it. "You haven't spoken to many psychopaths, have you? If you know what you're looking for, a minute is all you need."

"And you know what you're looking for, do you?"

John smiled patiently, though it felt thin. "As a matter of fact, I do. Would you have handled that situation any differently?"

"I wouldn't have blown a weeping angel to gravel!"

"Is that what it was?" John crouched down and inspected a bit of rubble. The grenade had done its work well; had John not known what it had been, he might have mistaken it for an ordinary rock.

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing it. I'm dropping it."

"Well, don't drop it, then."

John straightened. "And why is that? What more is there to discuss? Yes, I killed that—weeping angel, or whatever it is."

The Doctor folded his arms. "And why is that?"

"Because it killed my friend. No provocation. No warning. She is _gone _because of that thing, and if I'm not mistaken, it's killed more than a few others."

"How do you know this? Hm? Tell me, John, how on earth you know that."

Dear God, hippies were the worst. "That woman who was being chased, my friend, was a homicide detective with the NYPD."

"Oh, homicide detectives help find people now, do they?"

"I hate to interrupt a good row," Donna said, "but why are we the only ones here, in a public park, in the middle of the day, after a _grenade _went off?"

"Could all be on the run from the explosion," the Doctor said with a pointed glance.

Biting back a retort, John made his way down the hill and to the nearest bike path. A garish spot of orange and white was set against the green and brown of the wood. He frowned.

"Keep out signs?" Donna said as she picked her way over the debris. "How'd you have time to set those up?"

"Wasn't me." Obviously the Machine's doing, but that begged the questions of _why _it had done so and _how _it had known the signs would be needed.

"Who, then?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't know," John lied. A bossy hippie with an admittedly nice coat was the last person who deserved to know about the Machine. "Do you think that rubble's still dangerous?"

"No way to tell. Probably. Wouldn't be surprised if it were."

"I'll pull some strings. Get a HAZMAT team over here." Before the Doctor could protest his use of strings, he dialed Fusco.

* * *

When Carter was small, her brother played a prank on her. "Close your eyes," he said. "I've got a surprise for you."

She did, and when he said "Open," a garden snake dangled inches from her nose.

The prank had earned her brother several bruises, not to mention a black eye.

Whatever the angel statue did to her was much the same as that long-ago surprise. She felt a stab of cold, saw the dark, and then the Empire State Building stood on the horizon.

Same New York. She was still there. Still alive. Her apartment was just a few miles away.

But there was something wrong, very wrong. It took Carter a moment to put her finger on it.

* * *

"She's not dead. Well, she is _now, _but she wasn't when the angel got to her."

John ended his call with Fusco and slipped his phone back into his pocket. "If you're going to point out the obvious, there's no need to be mysterious. I know how murder works."

"Not the way the angels do it."

* * *

The sky was the same. People still jammed the sidewalks, hurrying to and fro, but there was something wrong about them. Something different.

* * *

"It vaporized her. I saw it happen. She was there one minute and gone the next."

"_Vaporized_? Is that honestly what you're going with? You think she was _vaporized_?"

"If you have a better explanation, let's hear it."

* * *

There weren't enough buildings. The skyline felt thin, and those people….the hats. It was the hats, she realized. Men seldom wore hats, and now she couldn't see a bare head among the throng. And the women….when had Carter last seen a woman in a dress like that?

* * *

"They didn't vaporize her. They couldn't. They sent her somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I don't know. There's no way to know."

* * *

Cars still packed the streets, but they were too rounded. Too monochrome. Too…._alike. _Looking at the street was like looking down on a classic car parade, but there didn't seem to be a marching band.

* * *

John sank onto a bench. "So how do we find her?"

"We can't. She's long gone by now."

* * *

It was the Empire State Building that drove it home, however. It stood tall and proud, a testament to man's ingenuity, but the top was wrong. Like a king without a crown, the top was incomplete. Unfinished.

Carter knew where she was. _When _was the question she should have asked all along.

She ran down the block until she found an abandoned newspaper on the sidewalk. Carter scooped it up and stared at the date.

* * *

"How do you know?"

The Doctor sighed and stared straight ahead. "Because they've sent me back before."

* * *

_November. _Nothing surprising about that—it was just as cold as the day she'd met that statue. The year, on the other hand, drew her gaze and wouldn't let go. It stared up at her, mocking her in bold typeface.

_1930. _

* * *

1930.

1930.

19-freaking-30.

Carter had known that statue was bad news the minute it cocked its head in her direction. The smile had been unnecessary; she knew enough to run from a living statue. By the time it had bared its teeth—_teeth!_—she'd known it was just showing off.

She knew in hindsight, anyway. The moment had been too terrifying to know anything but _run for your life _and _oh God it's closer dear God dear God dear God. _

Carter sat on a bench for a long while, not pondering much of anything but the date and a rising sense of hopelessness that choked from the inside out. She took out her cell phone and flipped it open, her brief moment of joy at seeing it still worked crushed when she found there was no service.

Made sense. No cell towers in 1930, after all.

Carter closed her phone. The last photograph she had received was still on screen, and she didn't want to think about what little sense it made. Whoever had sent her that black-and-white wedding photo was eighty years in the future.

A lifetime away.

Her career at the NYPD had taught her not to cry. There was work to be done, and the last thing a despondent family needed to see was the woman hired to solve their daughter's murder break down in tears in the middle of their living room. Better to channel sorrow and shock into something useful, like determination—something that could solve a case rather than impede it.

That training was all that kept her from sobbing in the middle of Manhattan.

The statue. She had to find the statue. Maybe it had followed her into the past. But why not follow her to her location?

Central Park. Of course. It must have returned to its previous location while sending her a safe distance away.

Made about as much sense as an angel statue that sent people back in time.

She could find it again. She could find it and demand to be sent forward. Carter checked her ammo. Stone might be resistant to bullets, but it wasn't immune, and at point-blank range, a standard-issue pistol could do a bit of damage.

Ignoring the voice proclaiming her plan insane, she started toward Central Park.

* * *

The smell of smoke greeted her long before she set foot in the park. Her first instinct was to call the fire department, and her phone had made it to her hand before she remembered it no longer worked. Her second instinct was to investigate, and she followed it.

A village of tents sat in an artificial valley of sorts, nestled between a few hills. Men and women huddled around oil drums, warming their hands over the flames. One woman stirred a pot of boiling water over a small fire pit, lifting unidentifiable articles of clothing now and then to check their progress. Someone played a harmonica, the music blending in with the sound of a hundred voices holding four dozen conversations. A sign stretching from one side of the entrance to the other announced HOOVERVILLE in large metal letters.

"Can I help you with something, ma'am?"

A dark-skinned man in a weathered coat and a battered fedora had appeared behind her. She gave him a wry smile.

"Nice sign."

He chuckled. "Couple of former metalworkers made it out of scraps. Thought they might as well send ol' Hoover a message, long as they were stuck here."

"How long it'd take?"

"Few months. Would've gone faster, if they'd found the scraps sooner. And they couldn't find any working torches, so it took more doing to get the pieces together."

"Ah." He seemed friendly enough. Reasonable. Carter offered her hand. "Det—" The Great Depression had no female detectives, let alone those with skin darker than a light tan. "I'm Jocelyn. Call me Joss."

The man shook it. "Solomon. Call me Solomon. Anything you need, you come to me, you got that?"

So he was something of a leader. Good to know. "I was actually looking for an angel statue. You seen one?"

Solomon frowned. "You're in the wrong place, Joss. Most angel statues in this city are in the cemetery."

"I figured."

"Why're you looking here?"

"My daughter," she said, spinning the lie. "Guy she knows said he'd meet her at the angel statue in Central Park. Thought I'd beat 'em both there."

Solomon smiled, laughed, and clapped her shoulder. "Smart woman. I like that. Nah, I haven't seen any angel statues, but if I did I'd send you right over."

"I appreciate it. Guess I'll just keep looking, then."

"All right. Be careful, now."

"Why?"

His smile had vanished. "Lot of bad characters out there. Just be on the lookout."

Carter smiled. "Don't worry. I can handle a few jokers."

Solomon still did not smile. "I'm sure you can."

With that warning ringing in her ears, Carter bade him goodbye and set off to search the park, far from the music and smoke of Hooverville.


End file.
